


Sat Next To You, Watched You Smile

by 1833outboy (phancon)



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Fluff, M/M, Teen Angst, Teen Romance, Tutoring
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-25
Updated: 2018-09-25
Packaged: 2019-07-17 13:52:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16096964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phancon/pseuds/1833outboy
Summary: Pete Wentz is sat waiting, tanned inked arms and wide amber eyes, in Patrick’s desk chair.To say that this is not who he expected his tutor to be is an understatement.





	Sat Next To You, Watched You Smile

**Author's Note:**

> wrong-side-0f-paradise on tumblr requested high school au peterick
> 
> several weeks later i finally finished it.

“This isn’t  _fair_ ,” Patrick says – not whines, he’s not whining, honest to fuck he’s not whining right now.

“Three Ds in one month says fair doesn’t matter,” his mother says as she shoves more dirty socks into the washer.

“I told you, those quizzes don’t even mean anything! They don’t count toward my final grade at all.” He doesn’t want to tell his mom the truth: that the only reason he failed those English quizzes was because he didn’t do the reading he was supposed to do, and he knows he could’ve passed if he’d done the homework. That’s not tutor worthy, after all, that’s grounded worthy. And right now, being grounded is probably worse than after school tutor sessions. Being grounded would mean his guitar being confiscated.

His mom just sighs. “I’m not arguing with you, Patrick. Your tutor will be here tomorrow afternoon.”

Patrick does not sulk. But he does spend a lot of time that evening alone in his room with a surly look on his face.

**

The following day after school Patrick is fifteen minutes late home. Fifteen minutes late getting to his bedroom. Which mean that it’s been fifteen minutes since Pete Wentz first sat waiting, tanned inked arms and wide amber eyes, in Patrick’s desk chair.

To say that this is not who he expected his tutor to be is an understatement.

Thing is, Patrick  _knows_  Pete Wentz. Not like, intimately. Not like, well. Not like, in a way where they high five each other in the hallways or get partnered for Chemistry or anything (impossible, since Pete’s a senior, a year above Patrick). But he knows Pete Wentz in the way that everybody at school knows Pete Wentz. Pete Wentz is a sports star with soccer scholarships coming out his ears. Pete Wentz is a rock star in six different bands outside school. Pete Wentz is a Casanova who’s been with every girl and gay guy worth anything in popularity points. Pete Wentz is a self-proclaimed douchebag of a heartthrob.

Pete Wentz is spinning in Patrick’s desk chair, whistling something out of tune, then grinning and stomping his feet down to the carpet when he sees Patrick staring at him from the door way. “Finally! I was starting to get bored. Patrick, right?” He points to the poster of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles Patrick’s had on the wall by his dresser since he was eight. “Quick question. Is that, like, ironic or something? Because, uh – adorable. I think I had one like that when I was ten.”

Patrick was ready for many things this afternoon. He was ready for being scolded and bored and taught things he already knew. He was ready for a guy in his forties to make Shakespeare duller than even his teachers could. He was ready for over an hour of watching the clock until he could finally go back to sitting alone in his room and writing his damn songs.

He was not ready for the most popular boy in the whole school to point out his failings as a teenager and laugh about it.

Patrick thinks briefly about running back downstairs and telling his mom all of this. He thinks briefly of running out the front door and starting a new life as a teenage runaway.

He shuts the door behind him instead, staring at the toothy grin on Pete’s face. “You’re not my tutor,” he says bluntly. Because come on. Come the fuck  _on_.

“Try again,” Pete says, still fucking smiling.

“How are you my tutor?”

Pete shrugs. “Thirty bucks a day, dude. Easy money.”

Patrick doesn’t say anything to that. He just stares. At Pete Wentz. Pete Wentz in his bedroom, sat at his desk, emptying out a backpack of books. Patrick might actually walk downstairs and tell his mom he’s emancipating her for letting the boy his high school named  _Sexiest Boy (Class of 2001)_ not only into his bedroom in the first place, but free to roam his bedroom alone for the fifteen fucking minutes he was late getting home (the record store detour may have been his fault, admittedly, but that’s not the point).   

“I wasn’t sure what play you’re doing – your mom said Shakespeare, but not which Shakespeare, y’know?” Pete’s saying casually, like this isn’t weird at all. “So, I brought the complete works. Whatever you’re doing should be in here.”

He holds up an enormous book and turns to Patrick expectantly. Patrick, for his part, can’t seem to find any words to say. He can’t seem to move either. Right now he’s absolutely positive this is the worst day of his entire life. This is including the time he got a boner in the PE changing room a year ago.  

“You just gonna stand there?” Pete asks after several seconds where Patrick says and does absolutely nothing.

After swallowing, blinking, and locating both his tongue and a couple of words to say, he points out quietly, “There’s only one chair.”

“Oh.” Pete frowns around the room for a moment. Patrick wishes he wouldn’t, wishes they were both anywhere but here. Here, in the midst of the dirty jeans Patrick has left on the floor by his dresser, the cup of cold tea that’s been sitting on his bedside cabinet for almost two days now, the vinyl, CDs and tapes that litter the floor surrounding his stereo. “You wanna move over to your bed then?”

Patrick doesn’t know why – he  _really_  doesn’t – but the words “your bed” coming out of Pete Wentz’s mouth creates some kind of intense and horrific physical reaction in him that seems to make every single blood vessel in his body go violently warm. His cheeks are maybe the worst offenders, though he is also thankful he's wearing loose jeans today. “Um,” says Patrick ineloquently, but Pete is already carrying his books over to the bed, settling himself down and leaning back against the wall. He raises an eyebrow, and finally – thank god, he was beginning to worry he was having a stroke or something there – Patrick manages to will himself to move, going over to join Pete on the bed.

“Okay. So,” says Pete, looking at the pile of books between them. “The play. Which one is it?”

“Romeo and Juliet,” Patrick mumbles, trying not to wince because  _really_.  _Really_. Has his life turned into some sort of gross cliché? And no, it’s not like he  _likes_  Pete or anything. It’s not like he finds Pete horribly attractive. It’s not like he’s been distracted by Pete in the halls or anything. It’s just—

It’s just weird. To talk about, like, romance of any capacity with Pete Wentz, even the tragic, selfish, dumb romance Romeo and Juliet have. It’s weird because— just because.

“Oh, dude,” Pete laughs, flipping through the heavy Shakespeare book. “You know, I know people complain about this one, and whatever, maybe it’s overdone, but I get how—”

“Can I ask you something?” Patrick interrupts – or rather, his runaway mouth interrupts, while his brain blazes alarms at sixty miles an hour, confused as to why he’s trying to say absolutely anything to Pete motherfucking Wentz.

“Sure,” says Pete, unfazed.

“How come— I mean… I didn’t know you – you know, tutor. Or whatever?” Patrick’s sure there are better ways to word whatever that was supposed to be, but then that’s what you get when your mouth says things without absolute permission from your brain. New rule: don’t do that again.

Pete shrugs. “I don’t.”

“Yeah? Then this is… What— What’s this?” Patrick asks, violating his own rule immediately.

“Okay.” Pete grins. “I don’t  _normally_.” He looks back down at the book. Patrick is not watching the way the collar of his t-shirt rides down and reveals the inked thorns around his neck. He’s not. “You got your quizzes? If we take a look at them, we’ll see where you’re going wrong?” He frowns. “Even though I don’t think there really is a way to go  _wrong_  with this kinda thing. I was always told there wasn’t a wrong answer to essay questions, as long as you get your point across and explain it... Did you just say nothing? ‘Cause that’ll be wrong.”

“Why,” Patrick begins, convinced every ounce of him has given up on not being a complete prying idiot, “are you tutoring me?”

Pete doesn’t bat an eye. “Your mom was talking to my mom. I overheard,” he shrugs.

“But you… you’re…” Patrick is having a hard time finding the words to tell Pete that he is not the kind of boy who goes over to nerds houses and helps them with their homework. Patrick knows this because he’s spent a lot of time (not) staring at Pete from a distance. Pete’s kind of an asshole, everyone knows this. “I dunno, you’re only like a year older than me,” is what he finally settles on.

“I’m saving up for a new bass,” Pete says after a moment. “And you… I mean, your mom said she’d pay me. I’m an A student in English, believe it or not.”

“You are?” The surprise and the doubt are hard to hide, especially when you don’t try.

“I am,” Pete says, and now he’s frowning a little. “It’s Math I suck at.” Pete looks up, and Patrick feels fucking awful because he maybe liked that toothy smile Pete wore up until ten seconds ago. The smile that’s gone now. “I’m not a liar,” he states.

“I— I never said you were,” Patrick says quickly. Oh, god, please don’t let him piss off the most popular kid in school. He’s literally a nobody, but better a nobody than somebody guys like Pete hate.

Pete’s eyes narrow. “I’m not a complete dumbass either.”

“I know,” says Patrick. There’s a pause. Patrick silently wills himself and his stupid mouth not to say or do anything dumb. “…sorry?” Okay, an apology. Not that dumb, well done.

And oh, thank fuck, the smile is back, giant and grinning. “Relax, dude, I’m fucking with you.”

Patrick resists the urge to hit him; he kicks his ankle lightly instead against the sheets. “Asshole,” he mutters.

“Are you gonna get those quizzes or not?”

**

“Can I ask you something?” Pete says forty-five minutes and several arguments later. Arguments about whether the tragedy was futile, about the stupidity of the leads and that yes, Mercutio is totally gay. The last one is about the only thing they can probably agree on. Despite this, Patrick is surprised by how much he enjoys arguing with Pete.

“What?” Patrick says, scribbling down something about Benvolio role in the play. “I already told you I'm not gonna put that Benvolio and Mercutio are gay lovers when Mr Thomas will for sure mark me down for it. He'd probably fail me to be honest, you know he's a homophobic asshole.”

“Not that,” Pete says quietly. “It's not about the play. I was just wondering… How come you spend all your lunch breaks in the music classroom?”

Patrick’s pencil stills, eyes widening a little as he looks up. He’s not sure what he was expecting Pete to ask, but it definitely wasn’t that. “I— How… would you know I do that?” Patrick’s going for nonchalance, for casual, for – you know, a kind of “ _you apparently notice something about me that not even my friends do, and that’s fine_ ”. He’s not sure he succeeds.

Pete shrugs. “I watch you sometimes.” Patrick is trying not to choke on his own breath. Pete doesn’t seem embarrassed. How is he not embarrassed?

“You… watch me?” Patrick repeats, and his voice definitely doesn’t squeak, nope.

“I see you go in there,” Pete says. “Opposite the cafeteria.” Then he leans forward, toothy grin only a few inches from Patrick’s face. Patrick’s eyes dip, against his own will, to his pretty, cracked pink lips. Pete wets his lips and whispers, softly, “Patrick.” Patrick’s heart is stuck somewhere in his throat, thumping against his neck. If he leans in just a little closer…

Then Pete opens his big dumb not-pretty mouth again, “Are you hooking up with Miss Gladys?” Patrick reals back. “‘Cause you can tell me if you are – I promise not to let the school know how much you’re into hair buns and old lady cardigans.”

This time Patrick does hit him. Not so lightly and on the arm. “Fuck off, dude! She’s about a hundred!” His heart is still beating madly. Does Pete know? Can’t he hear it?    

But now Pete’s just laughing, loudly and ugly. “Closer to fifty, I’d say,” he gets out between breaths. “I’m not gonna judge, man!”

Patrick shoves him sideways against the headboard. “I’m writing songs, you asshole!”

Pete’s laughter dies down a bit at that. He’s still grinning. “Writing songs? You write songs?”

Patrick shifts uncomfortably. Pete’s acting like he hadn’t just reduced Patrick’s insides to mush in a few short seconds. “Um. Yeah, kinda. Sometimes. I mean, all the time really,” he says, trying to act the same.

“Shit, no way. You’ve gotta show me! What do you play?”

“Well, lots of stuff – piano, drums, trumpet – mostly guitar though. I play acoustic for some of the songs, you know,” Patrick says, animated now. He still feels a little like he wants to push Pete over and – do… something. Kiss him? Punch him? Jury’s still out. But song writing is something he actually likes to talk about quite a lot, so he’ll settle for this for now. 

“Oh, man.” Pete looks around the room for a moment. “Where’s your guitar? I wanna hear it!”

Patrick’s eyes widen. “Really?”

“Uh, yeah! I’ve seen you – you’ve always got your Walkman in. I bet you’re a real little music man.”

Patrick’s surprised, but after a few seconds of hesitation he dutifully goes over to the closet where he keeps his guitar. He sits on the edge of the bed with it, fingers lightly patting over the strings nervously. “I know I’m not much of a singer, so, uh, try to ignore that and mostly focus on the melody, you know?”

Pete nods, sat on his knees next to Patrick and very obviously paying rapt attention. Patrick clears his throat nervously; he’s played in front of people before, but those people have only consisted of his mom and Miss Gladys. This feels much different, somehow. Doing his best to ignore the eyes he can feel bore into his skin, Patrick squeezes his pick tightly between his fingers and begins to play.

It’s a song he’s been working on for the last few weeks, one about longing and wanting and lust, based loosely on… feelings he's been having. Feelings he’ll only identify through the songs he makes. It’s only once he starts singing that Patrick realises what a poor choice it is to sing this song to Pete. The notes he has to sing are high, most of the song in falsetto, and it’s more sensual, more heated than he ever remembers it being when he sang it in the school’s ugly, overheated music room. Pete is silent beside him, but he can still feel the eyes on him. Patrick won’t look at him as he plays, keeping his eyes locked on the door in front of him; his cheeks are warm enough already.       

He plays the final note at last, still staring straight ahead. There’s a quiet that settles for several seconds, the only sound the distant murmur of the television Patrick’s mom is watching downstairs. Patrick swallows, leaning his guitar against the bed as Pete’s silence stretches. Patrick won’t claim to know Pete that well after one afternoon, but silence is probably not good. He probably hated it. Whatever, screw him. What does he know anyway? Patrick’s heard some of the music his bands play, and they all  _suck_.

“Uh, yeah, so. That’s just the one I’ve been working on recently. I have loads of others. I  _know_  it’s not that great or whatever, you don’t have to fucking say shit, but…” Patrick trails off. He’s chanced a look at Pete, just a look, and now he can’t look away.  

Pete’s not exactly smiling, but his lips are pinched upward. His mouth is parted, his eyes sparkling. He looks awed, amazed, like he’s just seen something magical. Patrick’s never been looked at like that before. Every part of his body feels suddenly warm.

“Patrick,” Pete says very seriously, and as though compelled to do so he reaches for Patrick’s hand. “I think I’m like, falling in love with you.”

And then Pete kisses him.

It’s warm and wet and surprisingly gentle, Pete’s palm cupping against Patrick’s cheek. Patrick’s eyes widen, then close. Immediately he kisses back, immediately he’s all tongue and desperation, immediately he’s pulling Pete against him. It probably only lasts several seconds, though it feels far longer, until their lips part again, Pete resting his forehead against Patrick’s.

“What are you doing?” Patrick whispers, perhaps a little stupidly.

“Well, I  _was_  kissing you,” Pete says, smirking.

“But why?” Patrick isn’t dumb. He’s not (very) naive. He knows the drill. He’s… he’s confused, okay, he’s confused and he’s waiting for the “gotcha” moment that Pete’s gonna throw at him at any moment.  

Pete wets his lips again. Patrick watches, wants to kiss them again. “I really was watching you,” he says quietly. “And I wasn’t… it wasn’t creepy or anything. Or if it is—then you've gotta be creepy as well, ‘cause I know you watch me too. Between classes, in the hall – when you pass, you always look over. At first I thought maybe it was Gabe or Travie you were looking at, but… it’s me, right?”

Patrick swallows in order to stop himself from making a noise that’s both awkward and strangled from the back of his throat. “I’m… I…”

Pete smiles, but now it seems nervous. “I was kissing you because I’m like… I really,  _really_  like you. I can see me and you together. I’m only here— I only asked to tutor you… because it’s you.”

“Oh,” says Patrick, and he does what his brain has been telling him to do since he first saw Pete sit on his bed an hour ago: he kisses him senseless.

And okay, honestly… Patrick’s been on the fence about this, but he thinks that maybe –  _maybe_  – this whole being tutored after school thing won’t be so bad after all.

**Author's Note:**

> comments and kudos would be awesome! feel free to catch me on tumblr @1833outboy 
> 
> you could also [reblog](http://1833outboy.tumblr.com/post/178455698266/sat-next-to-you-watched-you-smile-1833outboy) the fic if you wanted


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